


Sherlock Holmes and the Final Case

by PhantomPhan16



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:12:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomPhan16/pseuds/PhantomPhan16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a terrible loss, Holmes takes his final and most dangerous case. Inspired by the 1991 and 1992 movies with Christopher Lee as Holmes and Patrick Macnee as Watson. Mentions one of the films but they don't need to be watched to read this fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loss

The people of London watched the funeral procession go down the streets towards the cemetery. Some people walked behind the casket, but one man stood out. He was tall and broad shouldered. His head was bowed, and his hat was pulled over his eyes. The rain made it impossible to tell if he was crying, but most would say he wasn't.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't cry, is what they would say.

The tall man was indeed the famous detective, but Dr. John Watson wasn't at his side. In fact, this was _his_ funeral.

Before the burial, after roses were placed on the casket, people watched as Holmes allowed his emotions and weakness to show in public for the first time. He removed his hat, and with obvious tears in his dark eyes, he bent and kissed the casket as a final farewell to his faithful friend and partner.

People began to leave until only Holmes remained, looking at the grave. Tears and rain mixed on his face. Guilt and self-anger rose within him. Watson had died saving his life, taking a bullet that had been meant for him.

Watson was dead because of _him_.

"I'm sorry, Watson," he whispered, his deep voice hoarse and choked by tears.

Finally, Holmes turned and began the lonely walk home. As the days passed, he withdrew into himself, losing interest in anything and everything.

Mrs. Hudson and his older brother, Mycroft, were at a loss of what to do.

Watson had meant more to Holmes than he had ever let on, and now that he was gone, the detective felt numb and empty.

Finally, Mycroft had enough.

"Sherlock, enough is enough! You're better than this! Snap out of it, man! Watson is gone, and there's nothing you or anyone else can do about it. You need to move on!"

Sherlock did nothing, and Mycroft sighed.

"I give up."

He left.

The next day, Mrs. Hudson returned from her errands to find Holmes gathering Watson's things and putting them in boxes.

"Mr. Holmes, what on earth are you doing?"

"If I am to move on, Mrs. Hudson, I cannot have the past staring me in the face everywhere I turn."

He picked up a picture of him and Watson that had been taken on their adventure in Cape Town, South Africa a year before.

"I must ask, Mr. Holmes, if it's all right if I keep that picture in my room?"

He paused for a moment then handed her the picture, and she took it to her room.

That night, as she lay in bed, she looked at the picture, which she had set on her nightstand. A sad smile came to her face as she looked at it.

She thought back over the years. Holmes and Watson had been very different from each other, and their relationship was tense at first. Yet, as they spent more and more time together, each began to take on some of the other's personality. They had been close as brothers. Holmes trusted Watson with some of his deepest secrets, and Watson trusted Holmes with some of his own. Each had risked their life for the other several times over the years. They had relied on each other. Together, they had been unstoppable. They were a team that had no equal or true rivals, but now... now the team was broken.

Watson was dead, and part of Holmes had died with him.


	2. Vow of Revenge

_Holmes followed the trail of blood wearily through the dark, empty streets. He was fearful of what he would find at the end._

_Nothing around him moved. All was quiet save for his lone footsteps on the cobblestones. He shivered, though not from the cold. With each step he took, the feeling of unease grew within him._

_Finally, he saw the source of blood. A man lay not far away face down, bleeding._

_He approached slowly, bent down, reached out, and turned the man over._

_"Watson."_

_Suddenly, those lifeless eyes filled with hate, and those horrible, blood covered hands grasped his throat._

He woke screaming and threw up just as Mrs. Hudson came running into his room. She quickly cleaned the floor and got him a glass of water to rinse his mouth with.

Shaking, he told her his dream.

"It's my fault he's dead."

"No. Don't say that. Watson gave his life for you. It's not your fault."

He looked at her with eyes ravaged with grief and guilt.

"He said we should wait for help, but I didn't listen to him."

"It's _not_ your fault," she said firmly.

He bit his lip and turned away. She gently made him look at her again.

"You, more than anyone else, should know that Watson wouldn't want you to be like this. You need to let go."

"I... I can't. My mind has accepted, but..."

He jumped slightly when Mrs. Hudson's hand touched his chest, over his heart.

"You're heart won't," she finished for him.

He nodded and allowed her to hug him, finding comfort in her gentle embrace.

The next day, he went to Watson's grave and placed some flowers there. He stood there, looking at the headstone. The breeze fanned his cheeks and made his coat flap some, but he didn't notice.

"I'm so sorry, Watson. I should have listened to you."

His mind took him back to Watson's final moments.

(flashback)

Holmes, after seeing that the attacker had escaped, rushed to his friend's side.

"Watson!"

He was bleeding heavily, and his breathing was hoarse and raspy.

"Watson, can you hear me?"

"H-Holmes?"

"Hold on, Watson."

He quickly took off his coat, put it under Watson's head, and rushed from the building. He saw a cab and ran to it.

"Sir, please, I need you to fetch a doctor and bring them back here, my friend is in grave danger."

"Will do, sir."

With that, the cab was off, and Holmes ran back to Watson.

"Watson? Can you hear me?"

Watson weakly opened his eyes and coughed again, coughing up blood. Holmes turned pale.

"Holmes,... I haven't... got much... time."

"No. Just hold on, Watson. Help is coming."

The older man weakly shook his head.

"It's... too... late."

Tears came to Holmes' dark eyes, and he gently took his friend into his arms, not caring that he was getting stained with blood. By the time the cab returned with a doctor and two policemen, it was too late. Watson was dead. They found Holmes kneeling, cradling Watson's body, and weeping. It took all four men to pry Watson's cooling body from his arms.

(flashback ends)

Holmes sighed and wiped away his tears.

"I swear to you, Watson, I will avenge you. I _will_ have revenge."


	3. No More

Holmes threw himself headlong into the case more than he ever had before. Scotland Yard and the local police had all agreed to help him in anyway they could. Over the next several days, it often came to the point where Holmes was so obsessed and wrapped-up in the case, that Mrs. Hudson would have to force him to stop long enough to eat and get some sleep. She did what she could to help, but usually the most help she gave was making him stop to eat or sleep.

She understood why he was obsessed with this case far more than any other. Unlike his other cases, this case was personal. Now he had his strive for justice urging him as well as his own personal feelings. The extreme dedication Holmes had for the case showed that he had truly cared for Watson.

Cared? No. He hadn't cared for Watson. He had _loved_ Watson, at least for the past few years. Watson had loved him back, proving that when he sacrificed himself for Holmes. They had been far more brothers than Sherlock and Mycroft ever were or would be. They had been different but had some similarities, and over the years, they seemed to take on some of the other's personality.

Both wanted justice to be done. Watson, the tender man that he was, had wanted to put an end to all crime. Holmes wanted as many criminals caught, charged, and punished accordingly, with the faint hope of putting an end to crime. He had taught Watson that there was no possible way for them to put an end to _all_ crime, and Watson had taught him that a crime is a crime and should be punished accordingly, no matter how small.

Watson took on some of Holmes' methods, in a way, intellect, and stubbornness. Holmes took on a bit of Watson's kindness, friendliness, and gentlemanly traits. He taught Watson when to be serious and sober and how to know when that is, and at the same time, Watson taught him how and when to be more relaxed, laid back, and lighthearted. They had rubbed off on each other. They had become _part_ of each other. They had understood each other better than anyone else in their lives did. Their relationship, their bond, had been unique, and a puzzle to nearly everyone they met.

Now it was no more. There would be no more joking by the fireplace, walks down memory lane of their cases over the years, or good-natured bantering.

Watson was gone, and Holmes was once again alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Sorry.


	4. Farewell

Clark Taylor ran out onto the roof of the old warehouse. There was nowhere for him to go. He turned as a tall man emerged from the inside of the building.

"What do you want with me?"

"Don't you recognize me, Taylor?" the man said in a mocking tone.

He removed his hat as lightning flashed. Clark's eyes widened with fear.

"No."

Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft Holmes searched high and low in the pouring rain for Sherlock. Finally, someone mentioned the old warehouse, and they headed there right away.

As they approached they could make out two figures on the roof fighting. They made their way to the roof and stopped at what they saw.

Holmes and Clark were fighting like street thugs, both bruised and bleeding. Holmes, fueled by his rage and sorrow, seemed twenty years younger and was proving to be quite a match for the much younger Clark.

Clark delivered a strong uppercut to the detective's jaw. His teeth smashed together as he fell back. Wiping his mouth, he spat out a bit of blood and leapt back into the fight. He dealt a crushing blow to the side of Clark's head, knocking the younger man down. He pinned him and grasped his neck, choking him.

"You killed him! You killed him!"

Clark's face started to turn purple, and his eyes began to roll back.

"Sherlock, stop, you'll kill him!" Mycroft cried.

"He deserves it!"

Holmes tightened his grip.

"If you kill him, you'll be no better than he is. You'll be just like him."

The sleuth froze, released Clark, and backed away in horror. He fell to his knees and wept.

Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, after making sure the police knew where to find Clark, took Holmes back to Baker Street. Soaked to the bone, he was placed in front of the fire.

After he was dry, warm, and had eaten, he went to bed. The next day he woke with a terrible fever. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft did what they could to help him recover.

A few nights later, in the care of his brother and landlady, Sherlock Holmes died. People all around the world mourned the death of the famous sleuth. Many whom he had met and helped over the years attended the funeral.

Knowing it was what his brother would want, Mycroft ordered him to buried beside Watson instead of with their parents.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were gone, but they would not be forgotten. Generations would read the tales of their adventures and come to know the two greatest and most famous detectives in the world.


End file.
